Catalyst
by Alchemine
Summary: Two old friends and sometime enemies meet in a Diagon Alley shop. (DumbledoreOllivander implied)


Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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It hadn't been the most expensive wand he'd ever sold, thought Mr. Ollivander as he locked his money box - back when people had loved ostentation and show, he'd made wands covered in more gold than all seven of those Galleons together - but it had surely been one of the most important. Even with all he'd witnessed in his long, long life, the significance of that sale had left him shaken, though he'd covered well enough in front of the boy and the giant.

Holly and phoenix feather, and a feather from such a phoenix! No one could have guessed it. Except one person had. And even as he thought so, that person pushed open the door of the shop and came inside.

"Yes, they've gone," Ollivander said, seeing his guest glance around the empty room. "Perhaps five minutes ago. I did everything you asked. Took his measurements, just as I do with all my customers, let him wave a few wands about, then brought out the one you provided."

"It happened as I suspected?" asked Dumbledore.

"To the very letter," said Ollivander. "I confess I was surprised. I hadn't truly believed he was destined for _that_ particular wand until I saw it for myself."

"And the boy has power?"

"Power and to spare. A vast, dark well of it, though he has no idea of what to do with it yet, or of how much he has. Frightening, almost, that depth."

"Not if it is used for the right purposes," Dumbledore said.

Ollivander snorted and folded his long hands on the countertop.

"You and I have very different definitions of 'the right purposes,' Albus. But we'll soon find out whose definition holds true. The battle has already begun. I felt it the moment the boy took the wand in his hand, as if the wand were a pivot, and our whole world turned upon it, and was changed in an instant."

"I felt it too," said Dumbledore.

"Now we shall be on opposing sides again, after all these years of truce." The wand-seller sighed, a dry, crackling sigh like the sound of a burnt-out log collapsing into ash. "I wish it weren't so. I haven't the blood left in me to fight the way I used to."

"Philokrates, old friend," said Dumbledore, "if there is one thing in this world I am certain of, it is your ability to get however much blood you may require."

"I don't indulge in that manner any longer," Ollivander said querulously, gesturing at his wizened frame. "You don't imagine I would look like this if I did, do you?"

"I suppose not," said Dumbledore. A hint of the usual humor crept back into his voice. "Under those circumstances, asking if you would like to have a drink before I go - just for old times' sake - would be pointless, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would," said Ollivander, with a look that said he thought the comment extremely inappropriate. But then his silvery eyes softened and took on a dreamy expression, and he added, "It would be tempting, though. Rarely have I tasted such a fine vintage as your blood, Albus. So much magic ... it only makes the flavor richer. A sip of yours was always as satisfying as a full draught of a lesser wizard's." He did not quite lick his lips, but the tip of his tongue slipped out and moistened them slightly.

Dumbledore smiled. "You never convinced me to try it for myself, though."

"You had your pleasures and I had mine," said Ollivander. "We were always generous with one another in that way."

"We were that," agreed Dumbledore. He paused, looking at Ollivander as if waiting for him to say something more.

"I shall leave you to your work, then, Philokrates," he said when Ollivander remained silent. "I am sure you have as much to do as I have. Thank you for your help, and good day to you." With that, he turned to go.

"Albus," called Ollivander as Dumbledore reached the door.

"Yes?"

"I - I wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you came to me about this matter. It warms my heart to know you trust me enough to do one last task for you before we go our separate ways. I will remember that, whatever happens later."

Dumbledore smiled again, but this time a hint of sorrow lay beneath the expression.

"Perhaps you and I will be on the same side again one day," he said.

"Perhaps, perhaps," said Ollivander. He looked away and began fussing with some wand boxes to indicate that their meeting was over. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore cast one last glance at him before opening the door to the street and stepping into the midst of the bustling, chattering afternoon shoppers. The other man's brocade robes flashed bright in the sunlight for half an instant as if he were a phoenix himself, caught in the very act of bursting into flame. Then the crowd swept him away, and he was gone.

The chime of the bell died as the door closed, leaving Ollivander alone in the warm, dusty stillness of his shop. His long hands shifted the boxes around deftly, caressing, feeling the seeds of sleeping magic inside, each unique, each ready to do good or evil. The wand chose the wizard and the wizard chose how to use it. He and Albus had made their own choices long ago. What the boy he had met that day would choose remained to be seen.

"Perhaps we'll be on the same side, my old friend, my old enemy," he said softly. "Perhaps ... and perhaps not."


End file.
